S oon after the men left, Kannice and Ethan went upstairs and immediately fell into each other’s arms, forgetting about Parliament and street mobs for a time. After they made love, though, Ethan made the mistake of asking if Kannice was ready to admit that the Stamp Act agitators were ruffians and fools.
“The ones who attacked Hutchinson’s house?” she said. “Clearly. But that doesn’t mean all of them are.”
He should have left it at that. But he didn’t, and they were up half the night arguing about the rioters and what they had done. Kannice, who believed that Parliament had overstepped its authority by enacting the Stamp Act in the first place, blamed the mob for going too far and ransacking the Hutchinson house. But she refused to say categorically that the riots led by Ebenezer Mackintosh and his men were wrong.
Ethan could hardly contain himself. “So what you’re saying is that they were justified in attacking Andrew Oliver’s property, but not Thomas Hutchinson’s.”
“Oliver has been made distributor of stamps!” she said, as if that was answer enough.
“That is what you’re saying then!”
Kannice raised her chin defiantly. “Yes!”
“So, you think it acceptable to destroy the property of those who disagree with you! And you’d be fine if people who support the Stamp Act tore the Dowser to the ground!”
“That’s not what I said!” she shot back. “And you know it! Oliver will be enforcing the Act. What was done to him was unfortunate, but justified. Tonight was different.”
“There’s no justification for destroying a man’s home,” Ethan said in a low voice. “I don’t care who he is, or what he’s done. If that’s the freedom these men speak of, then I want no part of it.” He rolled over and pulled the blanket up to his chin.
Ethan could tell that Kannice was watching him, thinking of more to say. But at last she blew out the lone candle burning in the room and lay down beside him. She touched his arm lightly and Ethan reached back to give her hand a quick squeeze. Soon after, he fell asleep.
When Ethan woke, Kannice was already up. The room was cold, though the bed was still warm where she had lain. She had pulled on a long, plain dress and was plaiting her hair.
Seeing that he was awake she said, “Good morning. Are you hungry?”
Ethan nodded and tried to rub the sleep from his eyes.
“Bacon? Bread? Eggs?”
“Aye,” he said.
Kannice laughed. “Fine. Don’t take too long getting yourself out of bed. Unlike some people, I have to work today.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
She came to the bed, kissed him, and slipped out of the room.
Ethan lay there for a few minutes more before finally sitting up and reaching for his breeches, which were slung across a chair next to the bed. He had barely gotten them on when the door opened again and Kannice came in, wearing a mild frown.
“Is everything all right?” Ethan asked.
“I’m not really sure,” she said. “There’s a man downstairs-no one I’ve ever seen before. He says he’s looking for you.”
“Lots of people saw me here last night. And it’s no secret that you and I spend a great deal of time together.”
“I know,” she said, still troubled.
“What did he look like?” Ethan asked. “What’s he wearing?”
“He looks harmless enough. Older than I am.” She paused. “Probably older than you are, too. Fine clothes. A silk shirt, linen waistcoat and matching coat and breeches. But he looks too rough to be a merchant or a shop owner.”
“A servant?”
“Maybe.”
He reached for his shirt. “All right. I’ll be down shortly.”
She nodded and left the room once more. Ethan finished dressing, making certain to strap on his blade. Then he left the room and descended the stairs to the tavern.
The man stood beside the doorway, his hands in front of him clasping the brim of a black tricorn hat. As Kannice had said, his clothes-the white silk shirt and pale blue ditto suit with its matching coat, waistcoat, and breeches-were of fine quality and fit him well. His hair was silver, but his face was unlined-Ethan wouldn’t have wanted to hazard a guess as to his age. His eyes were pale, and his nose looked like it had been broken at least once. Even before he spoke, Ethan guessed that he was a Scotsman by birth.
“Yah’re Kaille?” the man asked, as Ethan approached. “Th’ thieftaker?” His brogue was heavy-definitely Scottish.
“I’m Ethan Kaille. Who are you?”
“I represen’ a man who wishes t’ hire ya.” He indicated the closest table with an open hand.
Ethan hesitated, then took a seat. The stranger seated himself across from him.
“Who is it you represent?”
“Have ya heard of Abner Berson?”
Who hasn’t? Ethan wanted to ask. Berson had made a fortune importing and selling hardware and firearms from England. He owned a wharf and warehouses in the North End off Ship Street, and was one of the richest men in Massachusetts. “Everyone’s heard of Mister Berson.”
“I suppose. Ya wouldna heard that his daughter was killed last night, in th’ middle of all that unpleasantness.”
“I’m sorry to hear it,” Ethan said, his eyes flicking in Kannice’s direction. She was wiping the bar with a cloth, but he could tell she was listening. “I hope you’ll convey my condolences to Mister Berson and his wife.”
The man accepted his words with a nod.
“They had two daughters, didn’t they?”
“Aye. This was th’ older one. Jennifer.”
Ethan knew why the man had come, and though he sympathized with the merchant and his family, he needed to make it clear that he couldn’t help them.
“You understand, sir, that I’m a thieftaker. I recover stolen items for a fee and I deal with those who are guilty of thievery. But I don’t track down murderers.”
A wry smile touched the stranger’s face. “O’ course ya don’t, Mister Kaille. There’s no profit in it.”
Ethan bristled. “That’s not-”
“I mean no offense. Ya have a trade. Ya have t’ make a livin’. I understand. As i’ happens, Mister Berson has need o’ yar talents as a thieftaker. His daughter had on a brooch when she was killed. It was taken. Th’ family wants it back.” He pulled a small pouch from the pocket of his coat and placed it on the table. Ethan heard the muffled clink of coins. “Tha’s ten pounds. More will come t’ ya when ya find that brooch.”
Ethan’s eyes strayed to the pouch. “And if I happen to find Jennifer’s killer while I’m recovering the brooch…”
“Obviously, Mister Berson would be most pleased.”
Ten pounds. And more when he found the brooch. Ethan had to admit that he was tempted. But only the night before he had decided to keep out of sight for a while, to live off the money he had gotten from Ezra Corbett. More to the point, in all the time he had been working as a thieftaker he had tried to avoid taking jobs involving murders. They were far more dangerous, and he could never justify sparing the life of a thief who also killed, which meant that he himself might have to take a life. He had vowed long ago never to do that again.
“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said, meeting the stranger’s gaze once more.
“If it’s a matter o’ more money…”
Ethan shook his head. “It’s not. I don’t work murders.” He stood. “Please thank Mister Berson for his offer.”
“He asked for ya specifically,” the man said quickly. “And he doesna like bein’ refused. Ya might wan’ t’ consider if Abner Berson is someone ya want as an enemy.”
It wasn’t the threat that stopped him. He had heard far worse in his years as a thieftaker in this city. But the other part… He asked for you specifically.
“Why would he want me?” Ethan asked.
The man shrugged; the expression on his face didn’t change at all. “It’s no’ my place t’ ask. But he did.”
Now that he thought about it, Ethan realized that this should have been his first question. He usually worked for men of middling means-merchants like Corbett, craftsmen like Henry, for whom he had recovered a valuable set of tools before taking the room above his cooperage. Men as wealthy as Berson didn’t come to him. They went to Sephira Pryce. Pryce was better known; she was as wealthy and influential as they were. If word got around Boston that Berson had come to Ethan instead of going to the Empress of the South End, as many called Pryce, both Ethan and the merchant could expect visits from her and her toughs-never an appealing prospect.
Kannice would have told Ethan that this was all the more reason to send the silver-haired stranger away, to follow through on his plan to avoid the streets for a time. But that had never been his way.
“Have you approached Sephira Pryce about this?” he asked.
For the first time, Berson’s man seemed unnerved. His face paled, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “No,” he said. “Mister Berson sent me here.”
“Has he had dealings with Miss Pryce in the past?”
“It’s no’ my place t’ say,” the man said. He seemed unsettled by the question. “Mister Berson sent me here.”
“You already said that.”
“An’ will ya accept his offer?” He shifted in his chair, then straightened, regaining some measure of his composure. “Most men o’ yar… station would leap at th’ chance t’ work for Mister Berson.”
“Most men of my station wouldn’t be offered the opportunity.”
“Ya make my point for me, Mister Kaille.”
“Right, but what I’m wondering…” He stopped in midsentence, staring at the man.
“Yes?”
Of course. It came to him in a rush, along with his memory of the conjuring he had felt the night before. He should have understood immediately. If he was going to risk angering Pryce, he couldn’t afford to be this slow-witted.
“All right,” Ethan said. “I’ll do it.”
The stranger looked genuinely surprised. “Ya will?”
“Aye. I’ll need a description of the brooch and some information about Mister Berson’s daughter-where she was killed, and exactly when; where she had been, and where she was going. If possible I’d like to see her corpse.”
He had expected that this would trouble the man, but the stranger merely nodded, as if he had expected Ethan to request as much. What did it say about the streets of Boston that a merchant’s man should be more disturbed by the mention of Sephira Pryce than by the dead body of his employer’s daughter?
“She’s a’ King’s Chapel,” the man said, “downstairs in th’ crypt.”
“The crypt? She’s already been buried?”
“No. Tha’s where her body was taken. She’s t’ be buried on th’ grounds there.”
Naturally. The King’s Chapel Burying Ground was the oldest cemetery in Boston, and the only one a man like Abner Berson would have deemed appropriate for the interment of his child.
“Mister Caner, the rector there, knows yah’re comin’,” the man went on. “Once yah’ve seen her, yah’re t’ come t’ th’ Bersons’ home.”
“All right,” Ethan said, although he was already having second thoughts. He had his reasons for taking the job, but he had also had his reasons for refusing at first. Perhaps the stranger read the doubt in Ethan’s eyes, because he stood, put on his hat, and strode to the tavern entrance, as if determined to leave the Dowser before Ethan could change his mind. He paused by the door and looked back at Ethan.
“Until later, Mister Kaille,” he said, and left.
For several moments Ethan sat staring at the door, wrestling with the urge to run after the stranger and give him back Berson’s money. At last, knowing that by now he had waited too long, he reached for the pouch, which still sat on the table. He held it in his palm, enjoying the weight of it, the soft jangling of the coins. Then he stood and slipped it into his pocket.
Turning toward the bar, he froze. Kannice was watching him, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed in a thin line.
He walked over to her. “You have something to say to me?”
“I thought you weren’t taking any jobs for a while.”
“This one’s different,” he said. “I couldn’t say no.”
She didn’t respond.
“That man works for Abner Berson. His daughter’s been killed.”
“I heard,” she said, her voice flat. Ethan had been sure she would have much to say about him working on a killing, but if she did, she kept it to herself.
“They want me because there were spells involved. He didn’t say it, but I’m sure. I think I might even have felt the conjuring that killed her. That’s why Berson didn’t go to Sephira Pryce.”
“And do you have to work every job that calls for a conjurer?”
“Would you rather I left it to Sephira or the sheriff? They know nothing about spells. Or rather, they know just enough to cast suspicion on every speller in Boston, myself included. It has to be me, Kannice. I’m the only one who knows enough about conjuring to find the truth.”
Kannice went back to wiping the bar, rubbing at the wood with such fury that Ethan half expected her to take off the finish.
“She died last night,” Ethan said. “Berson’s man made it sound like she was killed by the same mob that destroyed Hutchinson’s house.”
She frowned, but she didn’t look at him. “You don’t believe that any more than I do,” she said quietly. “The men who wrecked those houses might be fools, but they’re not murderers.”
“Not all of them. But one of them might be.”
Kannice cast a hard look his way, but continued to clean the bar.
“I have to go,” he told her at last.
She nodded, a strand of hair falling over her forehead. He started to reach out to brush it away, then stopped himself.
“Will you be back here tonight?” she asked, pushing the strand away herself.
“I don’t know. Probably not.”
Her frown deepened.
“Anyway,” he went on. “It’ll probably be a late night.”
She straightened, her eyes meeting his. She draped the polishing cloth over her shoulder and tipped her head to the side. “If you change your mind…”
“Aye,” he said. Both of them knew he wouldn’t. He stood there another moment, neither of them speaking. Finally, Kannice went behind the bar, and retreated into the kitchen.
Ethan left the tavern.
The warmth of the previous night had given way to a cooler morning. The sky was a clear, bright blue, and a freshening wind blew in off the harbor, carrying the smell of fish and brine, and sweeping away the heavy pall of smoke that had been inescapable the night before. The streets were crowded with carriages and men and women on foot making their way with grim purpose to shops or to the markets at Faneuil Hall.
When Ethan first came to Boston, twenty-one years before, he thought he had never seen a finer place. The city was small by English standards, but it was clean and alive. Its streets bustled with activity. It was everything Bristol, his home in England, was not.
Two decades later, hard times and war had taken their toll. Every day, Boston felt more like the sad, gray cities of England. It had grown torpid, weak. Where once it had been the leading city of British North America, it was now the indolent older sister to New York and Philadelphia, surpassed by its younger, more vibrant siblings.
King’s Chapel sat at the corner of Treamount and School Streets, only a few blocks from the Dowsing Rod. It was one of the older churches in Boston, though it had been rebuilt only ten years before, its wooden exterior enclosed within a new granite facade. The wisdom of that choice had been borne out in the years since, as Boston was ravaged by fires, including one that began on Cornhill and swept down to the wharves, damaging literally hundreds of shops and homes. Some had suggested that the rebuilt church should now be called Stone Chapel, but it remained King’s Chapel to most in the city.
The still incomplete structure had a ponderous look, much at odds with the more graceful lines of the older churches in the North and South Ends. But the chapel was the first in the colonies to affiliate itself with the Church of England. Its congregation included some of the wealthiest and most influential families living in the central part of the city, particularly those with close ties to the Crown.
Ethan didn’t worship at any of Boston’s churches. In his years as a soldier and then as a prisoner, he had seen too much brutality and suffering, and had done things for which he could not forgive himself. He had lost a third of his life, part of his foot, and the one woman he had ever truly loved. At this point, whatever faith Ethan might once have had in the existence of a just and merciful God was gone.
This was another point of contention with Kannice, who every Sunday went to the Old Meeting House in the South End, and who assured him that God had taken his toes to save his life and had eased his ague before it killed him. But even if Ethan believed her when she said that God was watching over him, he knew better than to think that His servants would be so kind. Ethan was a conjurer, not a witch, and few of those who had been hanged or burned as witches in New England’s dark history could actually cast true spells. But that hadn’t stopped men like Cotton Mather from railing at magicking in their sermons, and it didn’t stop the present crop of ministers and vicars from doing the same.
And of all the churches in Boston, there was none that he avoided so assiduously as he did King’s Chapel. That was how Bett, the older of his two sisters, and a member of the chapel’s congregation, wanted it. Usually, he was more than happy to honor her wishes. Today he had no choice but to ignore them.
He entered the churchyard through the gate on Treamount, ascended a low set of steps to a pair of heavy oak doors, and entered the chapel. The building was far more attractive within than it was from the street. Pairs of columns with ornate carvings at their tops supported a high ceiling with shallow vaulting. Two stories of windows allowed sunlight to flood the main sanctuary. Boxed pews lined the central aisle, which led to a rounded chancel beyond the altar at the far end of the church. The walls and ceilings had been painted ivory, the columns darker shades of tan and brown, and the pulpit and gallery fronts pale pink; the pews were natural wood. Given the chapel’s somber exterior, the cheeriness of the sanctuary surprised Ethan.
A robed man, tall and narrow-shouldered, stood at the pulpit, poring over the Bible. He looked up as soon as he heard Ethan enter.
“Yes?” he called, his voice echoing through the sanctuary. “What do you want?”
“Mister Caner?” Ethan asked, walking forward.
The man frowned and descended the curving stairway to the stone floor. He had a thin, bony face and a somewhat sallow complexion. His nose was overlarge, his eyes were small and hard, his lips thin and pale. His robe was black and he wore a stiff white cravat at his neck.
“No, I’m not Mister Caner,” the man said, waiting for Ethan at the base of the steps. “I’m the curate, Mister Troutbeck. And you are?”
“My name is Ethan Kaille. I was sent by Abner Berson. I’m to see his daughter’s body.”
The minister’s frown softened. “Yes, of course. Mister Caner mentioned that you might be coming. This way.”
Ethan followed Troutbeck through an archway into the vestry behind and to the left of the pulpit, and then down a broad set of marble stairs.
The air grew colder and damper as they went down. At the bottom of the stairs, they turned onto a broad corridor lined on each side by stone walls. The basement was poorly lit; a few candles burned in iron sconces set in the corners, but there was no other source of light, and after the brightness of the sanctuary Ethan’s eyes were slow to adjust. He could tell, though, that the walls of the corridor were marked regularly with stone plaques, all carved with names and dates. The crypts.
In the middle of the corridor stood a stone table. A delicate figure lay upon it, her dark hair spilling over the edge of the slab. She was covered to her neck with a white cloth. A censer had been placed in a corner by the stairway, and fragrant smoke rose from it, barely masking the sickly smell of decay and the pungent scent of the spermaceti candles.
Ethan started toward the corpse, walking slowly, his boots clicking loudly on the stone floor. His vision was still uncertain, and so when a figure in the far corner moved, rising from a small wooden chair, Ethan nearly jumped out of his skin.
“That is Mister Pell,” Troutbeck told Ethan, amusement in his voice as it reverberated loudly off the stone. “He is sitting vigil with the body. I trust that if you need anything he can help you.”
The curate turned to go.
“Who brought her here?” Ethan asked, his pulse still racing from the fright the second minister had given him.
Troutbeck stopped and faced him once more. “Pardon?”
“Who brought the body to King’s Chapel?”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here last night.”
“Two men of the night watch,” said the minister in the corner. “They said they had been called by a man who found her lying in a deserted lane, and that Berson requested they bring her here.”
“You see?” Troutbeck said. “Mister Pell should be able to answer any questions you have.” He nodded curtly to Ethan and then to the minister before returning to the stairway. This time, Ethan made no effort to stop him.
Once the sound of Troutbeck’s footsteps had faded, Ethan approached the stone table. Mr. Pell did the same.
Pell was young and slight; despite his black robes and cravat, he looked more like an altar boy than a minister.
“Did the men of the watch tell you where she was found?” Ethan asked, as he stared down at Jennifer Berson’s face. She had been an attractive girl, with a wide, sensuous mouth, large, widely spaced eyes, and a straight, fine nose.
“They said she was found on Cross Street. But that’s all.”
“And what time was this?” Ethan asked absently, his gaze still on the girl.
“Forgive me,” the minister said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”
Ethan looked up at that. “Mister Caner didn’t tell you?”
Pell regarded him placidly. Even in the dim light Ethan could see that his eyes were pale. He had straight dark hair. A powdered wig sat on the stone floor beside the chair on which he had been sitting, but Ethan couldn’t help thinking that with a face as youthful as his, Pell would have looked odd wearing it.
“Mister Caner might have mentioned something about expecting a visitor,” the young minister said, taking some care in the choice of his words. “But I wish to hear an answer from you.”
Ethan resumed his examination of the girl, bending closer to get a better view of her face. Let the man play his games. Ethan had work to do. “My name is Ethan Kaille,” he said as he searched her head and neck for wounds. “Abner Berson has asked that I look into the death of his daughter and the theft of an item she was carrying when she died.”
“And you’re a thieftaker?”
“Aye.”
“Do thieftakers often investigate murders?”
“Are you interested in hiring me?” Ethan asked. “Or are you making conversation?”
The minister shrugged, looking sheepish. “I was merely curious,” he said quietly.
“I’m not sure this is the time for indulging your curiosity. Please answer my question: When did they bring her?”
“It was close to midnight, I believe.”
“Had she been dead for long?”
The minister glanced at the girl before quickly averting his eyes again. He stood a few paces from the table, and his hands trembled. “You mistake me for a physician, Mister Kaille. I couldn’t tell you.”
“Then you have no idea how she died?” Ethan asked.
Pell licked his lips. “None at all.”
“Forgive me, Mister Pell,” Ethan said. “But this can’t be the first time you’ve seen a corpse.”
“Of course not,” the young man said, his voice unsteady.
“And yet, you seem shaken by the sight of her.”
The man hesitated, his eyes now fixed on the girl. “She’s about my age. And the men who brought her said that she had been murdered. I’ve seen the dead before, but never anyone who was… killed in that way.”
“I understand,” Ethan said. “I’m going to uncover her. I want to see if I can learn something of how she died. All right?”
Pell nodded.
Ethan pulled back the sheet to reveal the girl’s body. She was dressed in a pale silk gown-a soft shade of yellow, although it was hard to tell in the dim light. Her petticoats were darker-perhaps green-and she wore a stomacher of white silk. Ethan bent closer, examining the exposed skin of her shoulders and chest, searching for any marks that might explain her death.
“Bring me that sconce,” Ethan said, gesturing vaguely at an iron tree in the far corner of the chamber.
Pell retrieved it and brought it to Ethan, setting it beside him so that the glow of the candles illuminated the girl.
Even in the better light, Ethan saw no stab wounds, no dried blood, no obvious bruises. He searched her limbs, checked her clothing for rents or cuts in the fabric. At last he rolled her onto her side to examine her back. Nothing.
He wasn’t surprised; this was why Berson had wanted him and not Sephira Pryce or some other thieftaker. This was why he had been thinking about that pulse of power ever since seeing Berson’s servant in the Dowsing Rod. Even so, he was troubled.
“There are no marks on her,” Ethan said, straightening and meeting the young minister’s gaze.
“What does that mean?” Pell asked.
“Well, it means she wasn’t killed in any of the usual ways. She wasn’t stabbed or shot. Her throat wasn’t slit. Her neck wasn’t broken.”
“Could she have been strangled?”
Ethan looked down at the girl again and shook his head. “That would leave bruising on her neck, whether done with a rope or bare hands.”
“What about poison?”
He considered this for several moments, staring at the girl’s face. Her expression in death was peaceful; she could well have been sleeping rather than dead. It was hardly the face of someone who had died by poisoning.
“I suppose it’s possible,” Ethan said.
“But you don’t believe it.”
“No.”
“Perhaps she wasn’t murdered after all.”
“Perhaps,” Ethan said absently, still regarding the body. “Mister Pell, I wonder if you wouldn’t mind getting me a cup of water?”
“What?”
“Some water. Or better yet, wine. Like you, I’m… I’m troubled by the sight of this poor girl. I need something to drink.”
“You’re lying to me,” Pell said, sounding young and just a bit frightened.
“I assure you-”
“You’re lying,” he said again. “And I want to know why.”
Ethan smiled faintly. “No, you don’t.”
“What do you mean I don’t?” Pell said, frowning deeply. “Of course I do.”
“Do you know my sister, Mister Pell?” Ethan asked. “She’s a member of the congregation.”
“Your sister?”
“You would know her as Bett Brower, the wife of Geoffrey Brower.”
“You’re Missus Brower’s brother?” The minister leaned forward, scrutinizing Ethan’s face. “Yes, I suppose I do see some resemblance. What about her?”
“Has she mentioned me to you?”
“No, why would she?”
It was a fair question, though perhaps not as Pell meant it. Bett was too protective of her status in Boston society to risk calling attention to her rogue of a brother, who also happened to be a conjurer. Thinking about it, Ethan realized that he should have been surprised that she had spoken of him even to dear Geoffrey.
“No reason in particular,” Ethan said at last. “I merely mention her to make you understand that you have no reason to distrust me. If you can simply get me some wine, I would be grateful. I’ll stay with poor Miss Berson-she won’t be alone for even a second.”
Pell said nothing, but he continued to eye Ethan, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“That’s not what you were going to say,” the man said at last. “Is it?”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
Pell stared at him. “You do know what killed her, don’t you? You just don’t want to tell me.”
“I don’t know anything,” Ethan said, trying to keep his voice even.
“Not for certain, you mean. But you have some idea. It’s there in your eyes; I can hear it in your voice. What is it you’re not telling me?”
Ethan didn’t answer, but he watched as the minister worked it out for himself.
After a moment, Pell turned back to the corpse. “She wasn’t stabbed or strangled,” he muttered. “She wasn’t shot or poisoned or killed in any of the other, more conventional ways. But she was murdered.” He glanced at Ethan again, his brow furrowed in concentration. And then it hit him. Ethan saw it happen. He blinked, his eyes widening. Even in the faint candlelight, Ethan saw the color drain from Mr. Pell’s cheeks.
“Oh,” the minister said. And then again, “Oh.”
“You understand?” Ethan asked gently.
“I believe I do,” Pell whispered.
“Then you understand why I need you to go.”
He squared his shoulders. “What if…?” The young man paused and took a slow breath. “What if I won’t let you do this? What if I call for Mister Troutbeck right now?”
“And tell him what?” Ethan asked.
“That… that you’re… that you’re a witch.”
“You could do that,” Ethan said. “You could make your accusations. I’ve done nothing that you could point to as evidence to support your claim. But still, he might believe you. He might have me arrested and burned or hanged. Is that what you wish to see them do to me?”
Pell looked away. “Of course not.”
“A young woman is dead. I believe she died at the hands of a conjurer. I understand that the mere mention of the so-called dark arts is enough to make some who wear those robes fall into a panic, but her family has hired me to learn the truth. And I believe that even Mister Troutbeck would want to see her killer punished.”
The minister glanced at the woman’s corpse. “What is it you want to do to her?”
“I want to find out what kind of spell killed her, and, if possible, who cast it.”
“You can learn those things?”
“Yes, I can.”
“But only by using witchery yourself. Isn’t that so?”
“Aye,” Ethan said.
“What kind?”
“What?”
“What kind of witchcraft would you be using?”
Ethan frowned. “Why would you care about-?”
“What kind of witchcraft?” the minister asked again, his eyes meeting Ethan’s. “Your sister isn’t the only person who came to this chapel with… with strange powers in her blood. I know something of conjuring, and before I risk being banished from the ministry by letting you cast on these sanctified grounds, I would like to know what you intend to do.” When Ethan still hesitated, he said, “This calls for more than an elemental spell, doesn’t it?”
“That’s right,” Ethan told him, surprised to hear that the minister really did know something of conjuring. “It would have to be a living spell.”
“So you’ll need to spill your own blood.”
“Unless you’d like to stay and let me bleed you.”
The minister paled again, but managed a smile. “No, I think not. But a living spell could draw the attention of other conjurers.”
“Any spell will,” Ethan said. “There’s nothing to be done about that.”
They stood eyeing each other for several moments, until at last the young minister dropped his gaze to the body. “Very well, Mister Kaille. I’ll trust you not to do any more conjuring than necessary, and you can trust me to say nothing about this to Mister Troutbeck or Mister Caner.”
“Thank you, Mister Pell. I’ll do this as quickly as I can.”
“I’ll be in the sanctuary. Please call for me before leaving the crypt.” Pell glanced at Jennifer Berson once more. “She shouldn’t be alone.”
His gaze lingered briefly on the corpse. Then he left the corridor, his footsteps echoing in the stairwell. When Ethan couldn’t hear him anymore, he removed his waistcoat and pushed up his sleeve, shivering in the cool, still air. He paused over the girl for a mere instant, studying her face once more. Her expression was so serene; she couldn’t have known what was about to happen to her. She hadn’t feared her murderer. This might well have been done by someone she knew, perhaps even someone she trusted.
He pulled out his blade and dragged its edge across his forearm, making a cut long and deep enough to draw what might have been a spoonful of blood. Laying his knife on the table beside Jennifer, he dabbed his forefinger in the welling blood and traced a single dark line across the girl’s brow, and a second one from the bridge of her nose, over her lips and chin, down the length of her throat, to her breastbone.
“ Revela potestatem, ” he murmured in Latin, “ ex cruore evocatam. ” Reveal power, conjured from blood.
The words rang in the dark chamber, as if they had been spoken by several voices at once. The stone beneath his feet hummed with power, and the air around Ethan felt even more charged than it had the previous night, when he conjured the horse. This was a stronger spell; he also wondered if perhaps these grounds held some power that he didn’t fully understand.
The ghost appeared beside him, his glowing eyes fixed on the dead girl, a hungry look on his russet features.
Ethan felt the blood on his arm turn to vapor, as sweat on the brow dries in a cooling wind. He watched the blood he had placed on her face, throat, and chest vanish, as if wiped away by some unseen hand. The candles beside him guttered and the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.
And then the body of Jennifer Berson began to glow. The light emanated from just to the left of her breastbone and spread slowly, radiating out over her entire body, spreading up over her face and head, out to the very tips of her fingers, and down to the soles of her feet. At first Ethan thought the light had no color, that it simply reflected the hue of the candle fire. But when he moved the sconce away and looked at the girl’s body once more, he saw that the glow was actually pale silver, the color of starlight.
Usually the spell Ethan had cast would have concentrated the glow at the point where the murderer’s conjuring had struck her, but the light surrounding Jennifer’s body was as even as moonglow on a snow-covered field. And that shade of silver… Every conjurer’s power had a different hue; the variations were subtle but distinctive. Ethan’s was rust-colored, like the brick facade of the Boston Town House in the late-afternoon sun. His other sister, Susannah, was also a conjurer. Her spells left a residue of greenish blue, the color of the ocean on a clear day. But never had he seen power like this before. It was as if all the color had been sucked out of the conjuring, and this silver was all that remained.
Old Reg’s ghost flashed a mocking grin. Then he vanished again.
Ethan had no doubt that Jennifer had been killed by a conjuring, but he couldn’t imagine what kind of spell had been used against her. It was possible that the way the glow had spread over her body offered some clue. An attack aimed at her heart might have produced such an effect by following the flow of her blood, though in Ethan’s experience such an assault, when revealed by the spell he had cast, should have left a gleaming spot over her chest.
There was another spell he could try, one that could tell him what the murderer had used to fuel his spell. Every conjuring had to draw upon its source, be it one of the elements-fire, water, earth, or air-for the simplest spells, or something drawn from a creature or plant for living spells. The revealing spell Ethan had just tried demanded his own blood. Other living spells could be cast using herbs or tree sap or wood.
Just as every conjurer left his or her color on the residue of a spell, so the source left an imprint as well, if one knew the casting required to reveal it. Ethan did. And perhaps knowing how the spell had been cast would help him learn a bit more about the murderer. He had told Pell that he would speak only the one spell. But this would likely be his only chance to examine the girl’s corpse, and it struck Ethan as foolish not to do everything in his power to learn the identity of her killer.
The wounds he made to conjure began to heal themselves almost as soon as he spoke his spells, which meant that he needed to cut himself again for this second casting. He retrieved his knife from the table, bared his arm, and laid the blade against his skin.
Before he could draw blood, however, he heard a light footfall behind him.
“Don’t you dare!” a voice warned, echoing off the ceiling and stone walls. “Not in this place!”